


Deos fortioribus adesse

by Janissa11



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man of middling height stood by the table, a flagon of wine twin to his own in one hand and a cup in the other. “Crowded,” the man added with a loose shrug. “Only seat left in the whole damn place.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deos fortioribus adesse

As he had planned, he arrived in Mogontiacum well before dusk, and waited calmly at the gate while the guards carefully checked his papers. More carefully than at any point prior to this journey, and so he cast a look about. Crawling with soldiers, but that wasn't unusual; Mogontiacum was a military hub, sitting on the Mesus and crawling with craft policing her waters. There would be cheap lodgings here and cheaper women, and drink everywhere you looked.

There was no obvious danger, and he retrieved his papers with a nod to the sweaty-faced guard.

“Keep those on you,” the man pronounced. Perhaps he was trying to prove his job was needed. “Not everyone's as easygoing as I am.”

He did not say anything, simply gave a courteous nod and rode on. Luigsech was tired, but he was certain she smelled oats somewhere, if the renewed spring in her step meant anything.

Perhaps it was time for a day or two of rest. Surely his business could wait that long; it had waited for some years now. Yes, this might not be the most congenial city in the empire – after all, he was accustomed to Rome herself – but he planned to sleep, eat, and probably sleep a bit more.

Two days, then. And onward.

He passed several inns, but all were brothels as well, and he doubted they would feature the sort of company he preferred. Luigsech was drooping again by the time he spotted a fairly clean-looking establishment with no obvious scantily dressed women about.

A fearsomely dirty urchin came trotting up, and Phillip glanced down at him. “Room?”

“Aye,” said the boy, already reaching for Luigsech's reins.

Easily sitting as she tossed her head and stepped sharply backward, he said, “Perhaps I should take care of her. If you'll show me the way.”

The boy led him to the stable. A reassuring whiff of clean straw and hay met his nostrils, and he led Luigsech into the indicated stall, running his hand up her neck and rounding to face her. “For a night or two,” he told her, stroking her gray nose. “I'll find you some oats. Please don't bite the stableboy.”

The mare snorted and tossed her head again, and Phillip grinned. “More than once or twice.”

With his horse seen to, he ducked away into the main building. Dusk had crept on, and the hallway and room beyond were lit with tallow lamps, smoky and not particularly bright. A fat man wearing a soiled tunic grinned at him, beckoning with a greasy hand.

“Come in then. Just bringing out supper.”

Phillip waited for the man to wipe his hand on an equally dirty cloth before handing him some coins. They passed muster, and he took the time to ask for wine before searching for a table. The room was bigger than it had appeared, and crowded, mostly soldiers. He edged past a loud contingent and spotted a single empty table near the back.

A woman with bright blonde hair and equally bright red cheeks brought him a flagon of wine and a cup that appeared moderately clean. He poured and drank thirstily; it was watered, but that suited him. He had never liked the person he became when drunk. It did feel good to wash away the dust of the road, though.

He took out Antonius's letter and spread it on the table, before topping off his glass. He needed to make final preparations for this inspection, ensure that he had all the facts by memory when someone or another demanded to hear them. But the parchment beneath his fingers failed to hold his attention.

The woman on the road – Natta, she called herself – had said she was a freed slave, a slave who had bought her own freedom and now was headed home. She had not revealed where that might be, and it didn't matter. Phillip drank wine and leaned back in the rickety chair, gazing over the mass of soldiers at the window beyond. Nothing to see in the darkness, but that extraordinary scarlet hair, and the utter implacable calm in her eyes.

Is that, he wondered, what freedom tastes like. It has been too long. I have let myself forget.

“You mind?”

Phillip started and looked up. A man of middling height stood by the table, a flagon of wine twin to his own in one hand and a cup in the other. “Crowded,” the man added with a loose shrug. “Only seat left in the whole damn place.”

“Oh. Yes, if – Yes, feel free.”

The man sat with a sigh, sloshing wine into his cup and drinking it down before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He was dressed as a soldier and wore a stout sword, but there was no company sigil attached to his tunic. “Fucking militia, worse than cockroaches. Can't get rid of them.”

Phil sipped his own terrible wine. “You're not --” he asked as delicately as he could.

“Militia? Used to be.” The man poured another cup and tasted it. He made a sour face, then grinned. “Now I work for myself. Or whoever's paying.”

“Who's paying now? Or should I ask?”

The grin turned crafty. “Best not, probably. So. What brings you out to a crowded, dirty inn with no whores on a night like this?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Traveling?”

“Indeed.”

“All the way from Roma Mater?”

Phillip blinked at him. “How --”

“The clothes. The pretty mare I saw in yon stable. Yours, isn't she?”

Phillip nodded, and saw another smirk on the man's face, not intended to offend. “I have business north of here.”

“And I south. Well met in the middle, eh?” The man held out one long-fingered hand. “Name's Merula. Although my old militia mates used to call me Clint.”

Phillip shook his hand, aware of the brief, strong press of fingers, exactly the right duration. “That's an odd nickname.”

“Got to admit, the tale behind it's funny.” More wine dribbled into Merula's cup, and he said, “But I'd have to be pretty damn drunk to tell you.”

“The wine's watered.”

“And a good thing, too. Some secrets,” Merula pronounced distinctly, “are not meant to be shared.” He gave Phillip a grave look, spoiled by the upward quirk of his lips.

He was an attractive man, Phillip could no longer deny, and charming in a sort of rough-edged way. Dangerous, likely, but kind as well. Perhaps. One never knew, really.

The arrival of their food curtailed the conversation for a moment. Boar in a rather unsightly sauce, but it smelled good enough, and it was hot. Decent soft bread and some overcooked vegetables.

They ate in silence for a time, and then Merula tucked a bite of bread in his mouth and said indistinctly, “Can't place your accent.”

Phillip ate a piece of carrot off the tip of his knife. “Thrace,” he lied. “Most people don't notice.”

“Good ear.” Merula shrugged and drank more of the fairly terrible wine. “Eye, as well. I pay attention,” he added when Phillip gave him a pointed look. After a moment he said, “Had another nickname.”

“Oh?”

Merula grinned, a slow, brilliant thing that blossomed like sunrise, transforming his roughly handsome face into something like beauty. “Hawkeye,” he said with satisfaction.

The feeling rising in Phillip's belly was familiar, if something he hadn't experienced in some time now. It was the work of a moment's startled contemplation before he recognized it as attraction. “Indeed,” he said slowly. “A marksman, then.” His tongue felt thick inside his mouth.

“None better.” It was said with such matter-of-fact candor that Phillip did not doubt it for a second. Merula leaned back in his chair. “The battalion commander wept when I resigned his commission.”

The twinkle in his blue eyes suggested more than a hint of hyperbole there, but Phillip was already entranced. Too late, some part of his mind wailed. Remember who you are! He ignored it. “And now your bow sings for different masters.”

“For others, yes. Masters? Well.” Merula gave a loose shrug. “I wouldn't go that far. And you, my finely dressed Roman friend? What business brings you to this gods-forsaken cold clime? And without attendants?”

Phillip's instant ardor cooled a few degrees, shaken by fact. “I require no attendants,” he replied as steadily as he could. “It is but an inspection, soon completed.”

Those blue eyes were suddenly far too acute. “I see,” said Merula, called Hawkeye, and Phillip had no doubt that he did indeed.

They ate in silence after that, a curiously fraught meal that Phillip devoutly wished were already done. He had experienced real hunger before, however, and no part of him could bear leaving perfectly good food on the platter. He finished his portion, eating quick and neatly.

Merula, he noted distantly, had little appetite, but emptied his flagon of wine and called for two more before the interminable meal was done. His face was not flushed, though, and he did not appear drunk. Only distracted, his gaze often darting to the door, or scanning the room's dwindling number of occupants.

When Phillip called for the serving woman and gave her a piece of emperor's gold in payment, Merula sat up. “'Tis early to retire,” he said, his voice clear and unaffected by the wine. “And I have a bottle such as puts this piss to shame. Care to join me?”

No, I do not care to, Phillip's mind stated calmly, but the words that departed his lips were, “Why not,” and he felt dizzy as he stood, as if one of Hawkeye's arrows had pierced his heart and his body were still reeling from the shock.

Most of the soldiers had departed, gone in search of dice or whores, most likely. The upper floor was near empty; there was none to see him as he trailed at Merula's heels, noting the weather-beaten fade of his reddish cloak, the strong line of his neck beneath closely barbered hair. He smelled of smoke and wind and violence, and the tiny hairs on Phillip's arms stood in response.

Merula's room was very like Phillip's own, only a bed and a dresser of sorts, a single hard chair. He saw a heavy bow, unstrung, and a quiver bristling with bright-fletched arrows. A second and slightly lighter bow leaned against the dresser, worn with use. Even it would require a very strong arm to draw.

“I really do have wine,” said Merula, slinging his cloak over the chair. His lips turned up in something between a smile and a smirk. “But I do not think it was drink brought us here, was it?”

Phillip swallowed over a suddenly dry throat. “Perhaps I should --”

“Come now, we are far from Rome, or anyone who gives a damn. Are you married, then? Children, perhaps?”

“No. I am not married.”

Another easy smile, and then Merula was standing too near him, a calloused hand sliding familiarly about his waist. “Then let us while away a few hours,” he whispered, breath tinged with wine touching Phillip's lips. “Ere we go our separate ways.”

His mouth tasted like wine, too, and the body beneath his rough clothing was chiseled with the muscle of physical work.

Some hours later, as they lay on Merula's bed, Phillip whispered, “I think I know what it is you do.”

Merula's fingers twined through Phillip's hair, gentle and unstopping. “Aye,” he said quietly after a moment. “And I think you are a scholar, some sort. You are an intelligent man, but you have secrets. Ones you think to hide from me.”

Phillip breathed in the scent of Merula's skin, still damp with sweat. “You are a mercenary, at least. You are paid to hunt. Hunt men, I think.”

“I've been paid to do a lot of things,” Merula said with a laugh. It was not unkind. “Sometimes there's a quarry. Sometimes not. But why do we speak of these things when there are much better activities to explore together?”

Phillip opened his mouth for Merula's kiss, and there was no more discussions of occupation or much of anything else that night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning came with sun and a sweet-smelling breeze, and Phillip awakening to the sight of a fully dressed Merula standing by the open window. His face was sober, and he did not smile when he looked over at the bed.

“Good morning,” Phillip said, sitting up and blinking in the sun. “Did you not sleep well?”

“I'm not much for sleep. Who is your master?”

For a moment Phillip could do nothing but stare at him, notice that those blue eyes could be cold, too, even in the midst of springtime warmth. He felt suddenly wide awake. “Aulus Antonius Leo,” he replied as steadily as he could.

“And your name, slave? The one your master gave you?”

“Legally, Britanicus. But he has never said I could not use the one my mother bestowed upon me. How did you know?”

Merula watched him, and in the sunlight his face was older, worn, unhappy. “It's what I'm paid to do,” he replied after a moment. Then he turned his gaze to the window once more and added, “Even now.”

Unease made Phillip doubly aware of his nakedness, and he reached for his tunic and donned it before standing. “I have papers,” he heard himself say, feeling a little dizzy. “I am here on business.”

Merula sighed and nodded. “I believe you. It is only --” He broke off, glaring at something Phillip could not see.

Picking up his sandals, Phillip murmured, “I will bid you good day then,” and Merula said nothing to stop him.

His room was dank and smelled of old smoke and bodies, and he flung open the window to let in the fresh air. Cold, but this early it didn't stink.

He had planned to stay another day or two. Now the prospect filled him with nothing but distaste. As pleasant as last night had been – and he was not sufficiently self-deluding to pretend it had not been, in every respect – he had no wish to see the mercenary again, or contemplate the man's business.

He saw the freed slave Natta's calm, certain features again in his mind's eye, and a shiver of dread shot through him.

It was a matter of moments to gather his things. When he turned to go, Merula stood in his doorway. His face was twisted with a complex combination of things: doubt, anger, regret.

“You're off then,” he said. He lifted his chin. “Northerly, if I remember right.”

Phillip nodded cautiously. “For a mine inspection. As I said.”

Merula's expression twisted again, his mouth downturned, and he took two steps inside the room to bring himself a hand's breadth from Phillip's body. “Had I known,” he said in a hoarse, low voice, “I would never.”

Phillip nodded once, curtly. “Might be awkward,” he heard himself say, “cutting off the head of a man you --”

Merula bent forward and kissed him once, on the mouth, hard and fast. When he drew back the anger had returned to his eyes, and a trace of an old bitterness that chilled Phillip's skin. “You should finish your business and get yourself back to Rome,” he snapped. “The north is no place for you.”

What place is, Phillip thought, I am a slave, I have been a slave since I was nine years old. Instead he did not nod, brushing past Merula with a carelessness that could have cost him dearly in the city.

~~~~~~~

Production at the mine was indeed down, and it was the better part of two weeks before Phillip could determine what had caused it, and see to improvements. The weather was fiercely cold, often with rain or sleet, and his bones ached without pause. He felt his age and more, and the bitter taste of Merula's last kiss lingered on his lips.

At night, wrapped in extra blankets on a narrow cot, he tried and failed to sleep, eyes closed and yet seeing Merula's weather-beaten face, those remarkable hazel-blue eyes. Narrow with suspicion, and wide with pleasure.

When he kept his eyes open, he learned, it was harder to see the man's face.

After a time, with both staffing problems and production shortfalls seen to, he had no further reason to linger. And the prospect of returning to Rome was pleasant, the sort of comfort that familiarity bred. He had, over the decades, learned no deeper love for Rome or her citizens. But he was not a fool, and recognized that few slaves had as much fortune as he. Antonius was rich, yes, but not therefore a miser, and better still he was not a harsh master. Phillip had the freedom and trust to do business in Antonius's name, and his house in Rome, however small, was warm and well-kept.

Plenty were far worse off than he was, and although the bitterness of slavery was never far from hand, he would in a few years have amassed enough gold to buy his freedom. And then –

He finished tying off Luigsech's saddlebags and shook his head. Then, the gods only knew, for he surely did not. Home was as foreign as these chilly northern climes, and no more welcoming. Antonius had once mentioned a villa he kept, with olive groves and a few pastures for goats and sheep. It was nearly abandoned, no one to oversee it, and Antonius had often considered selling it.

If he did not, and Phillip was canny, there were far, far worse places.

Riding south, he did not stop at Mogontiacum again, but kept Luigsech's head pointed at Rome. The weather eased surprisingly quickly. He made camp three nights, and only one of those did it rain, and then sparingly. He fed the mare the last of his store of oats, and watched the fire until his eyes began to close.

On the fourth day he came to one of the numerous small towns he had passed a month ago, and in the press of a market crowd he saw a flash of brilliant red hair.

Natta regarded him with no surprise, lifting her chin. Her cheekbone was bruised, and she was thinner than he remembered, but none of that mattered.

She led the way from the market to a hut on the very edge of the nameless town, and took the reins of a glossy chestnut gelding. The horse was already laden with provisions, which Natta checked with quick familiarity.

Phillip drew Luigsech to a halt and said, “That's new.”

“What, the horse?” Natta smiled, but did not glance at him. “Yes.”

“You had said – You were going away.”

“I did say that.”

“You told me you bought your own freedom.”

“Said that, too.”

This time he made no reply, and after a moment she looked at him over the gelding's back. “Come with me.” She didn't smile, or approach him, and he sat uneasily in the saddle, staring. “There's nothing for you there.”

His mouth felt very dry. “You didn't buy your freedom,” he said dully. “You escaped.”

The bruise on her face was fresh, no more than a day old. Her tunic had a poorly repaired rip along the shoulder. “I am not a slave,” she told him, chin lifted proudly. “Are you?”

“He is what he is,” came a gruff, familiar voice, “and no cause for your concern.”

Without surprise, he saw Merula in the doorway of the hut. The lighter of his bows sat easily in his hand, but no arrow was nocked. His face was lined with exhaustion and anger, and he spared Phillip only a single glance before turning to the woman. “Do not make me regret more than I already do,” he told her. “Next time I will not forbear.”

She smiled, a flash of good white teeth and a toss of her radiant hair. “Next time,” she replied, “you will not have the opportunity.” When she slung herself astride the gelding Phillip caught the gleam of a sword hilt at one slim hip. “When you tire of slavery,” she called to him, laughing, “come find me. Or perhaps I will find you?”

He could think of nothing to say, frozen with astonishment, and watched as she cast another glance at Merula before driving her heels into the gelding's flank and riding away.

And then he turned in the saddle to look at Merula. “You let her --”

“We never did drink that wine,” Merula said, rubbing one eye tiredly. “I've a bit of food as well. Come inside, if you're going to.”

Inside was dim and smoky, and furnished with only a rough table and two stools, a tripod over the open fire bubbling with something savory. Phillip pushed back his cloak and sat heavily, wordless as he watched Merula scoop up food into two bowls, set them carelessly on the table and begin to eat.

The wine was already open, and there were two cups. Phillip took one and drank. Merula hadn't lied. The wine was decently good.

“I'd say we could ride together, but I'm for north of here,” Merula said after a moment. “I assume you're headed back to Rome.”

“They'll kill you. You can't go --”

“She fought me, and she escaped,” Merula interrupted, and only the tilt of his eyes gave anything away. “I've got the wound to prove it.” He twitched up his tunic. A gash in his side had been expertly stitched, and Phillip had no doubts whose hand had held the needle.

Letting the fabric fall, Merula shrugged. “Slaves get away sometimes. It's something the centurions don't want anyone to know.”

“Not often. And not --”

“Eat. It's getting cold.”

They finished the stew in silence, and the rest of the wine. Finally Phillip could bear it no longer.

“I have money,” he said softly. “Enough to see you to another place. They will hunt you, as surely as they hunt her. You cannot --”

“Keep your master's gold,” Merula said harshly. “I don't need it. Will you run? Follow her? I cannot say I will not find you, and when I do, it --” He broke off. “It will go badly for you.”

“You let her --”

“I let her do nothing!” Merula roared suddenly. His fist slammed into the table, setting it rocking on uneasy legs. “She fought me, better than most men I've met in my life. And she beat me. And it does not --”

His voice cut off, and Phillip waited a moment before whispering, “Does not what?”

For a few seconds there was no reply. And then Merula met Phillip's gaze and said, “She's different. You saw it too.”

“How so? She is a woman. She is a slave. You --”

“She is no slave.” And Merula's mercurial mood swung again, until he was laughing, still watching Phillip sharply. “That, too, you must surely see.”

Phillip waited, and then asked, “And me?”

The silence that followed was long, and awful. And still Merula did not speak, but after a time he rose from his stool and circled the table, reached out and took Phillip's wrist and drew him up. His lips were warm, his hands, too, and when he drew back from their kiss his beautiful eyes were filled with nothing but regret.

“You are only a slave,” he whispered against Phillip's cheek, “so much as you believe you are.”

He smiled briefly, and then turned away. When he had donned his cloak Phillip found his voice.

“Will you follow her?”

“Her?” A fast, scornful glance. “Hells no. Don't much care for women.” He hefted a pack onto his shoulder. “I've an errand, and then – we will see, won't we? Antonius gives you a long leash; perhaps I'll pay you a visit one day. A friendly one,” he added with a quick lopsided smile.

You won't, Phillip thought, but nodded. “I would be honored,” he said, and meant it.

“Then you should bloody well call me Clint.”

Phillip found a smile on his face. “One day you'll tell me about that.”

“One day,” Clint agreed, “but not today.” He put thumb and finger to his lips and blew a short whistle, and almost immediately a shaggy gray gelding trotted up. He slung the pack over the horse's withers and tested the saddle's girth. “Until then, fair Britanicus.”

“Be careful,” Phillip whispered, but Clint was already mounted and cantering down the road, north.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He thought at first that he really would see Clint in Rome. Perhaps in weeks or months ahead.

But his business returned to normal, his routine the same as it had been prior to his journey, and Clint did not come. Phillip wondered at times if he might hear of a woman with flame-colored hair, caught for the crime of escaping her master, but there, too, he neither heard nor saw anything. Perhaps she had not even lived in Rome. He had not asked, and she had not said.

After two years he stood in his best tunic before Antonius and offered him gold in exchange for his freedom.

“Well.” Antonius fingered his well-trimmed beard. “So you want to leave, then?”

“I am not sure,” Phillip replied honestly. “I had thought to buy a house in the south. Grow something.”

Antonius's lip curled. “You know nothing of growing things,” he said, although his tone was gruffly amused. “You'd starve.”

“I could learn.”

Antonius regarded him for a long time, and then made a face. “Keep your damn money. You'll need it, no doubt. I'll have – well, someone – draw it up, get it all notarized. You know you're the one I'd normally ask. Damn you.” But his smile was startlingly fond.

His chest felt tight, and he managed to nod. “Thank you, sir.”

He turned to go and Antonius called, “Still like the idea of growing things? I have a villa needs an overseer.”

“I remember,” Phillip said, smiling as he turned back. “I thought you'd sold it.”

Antonius waved his fingers. “Never got around to it. See that you take some provisions, whatever you need.”

“It will cost --”

“Never mind that, go. Before I come to my senses and remember I will be sorely pressed to ever find another slave a tenth of your value.”

“Dominus,” Phillip whispered for the last time, and slipped away.

It took time to put everything together, but a month later he took the road south, with a well-loaded wagon and heavy horses to tow it, and Luigsech trotting along behind. Outside the city he saw newly erected posts, and heads atop them, and at one point he saw a placard on one of the posts. Crows had pecked the face but it was still recognizably a man of middle years, and Phillip halted the wagon, feeling cold in the summer heat.

The hair was sand-colored, bleached to blond in exposed areas by the sun. There were no eyes left. His tunic was torn and stained with blood, and it was no longer possible to tell what color it had been, if any. Red, perhaps. Sturdy sandals not yet stolen off his feet. Military issue.

No, he could not be certain. The placard was the sort put up when one aided and abetted escaped slaves. The man could be anyone. Anyone at all.

He drove the wagon slowly and did not notice overmuch the countryside passing by. In truth he paid no attention to time, either, and so it was with a sense of vague tired surprise that he realized he had arrived at his destination.

It was the work of a moment to see the state of things. The villa was in terrible shape, the fields overgrown and the olive orchard abandoned and in sore need of care. But the house looked sturdy enough beneath the neglect, nothing a bit of labor would not fix.

An old fountain had been erected years ago, and now stood dry and cracked by the entrance. He saw a flash of bright red hair and heard a horse whinny, and he smiled a little before he clucked at the horses to take him home.

-FINIS-

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't label this for major character death because I don't know for sure if Clint is dead or not. I like to think he isn't, and he'll show up one day, with another good bottle of wine and a few new scars, and money he doesn't explain at all but spends hiring some workmen to fix the fountain. 
> 
> My apologies for any factual inaccuracies; I am addicted to stories about ancient Rome but I am in no way, form or fashion a scholar on the subject. This story has sat a long time while I dithered as to whether or not to add a few earlier sections, but it is what it is, finally. My thanks to G, for reading it a long time ago and supporting it.


End file.
